Carter 


Pains  of  the  Imagination 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PAINS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION, 


HEAD  BEFORE  THE 


PHI  BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY, 


DARTMOUTH  COLLEGE, 


AUGUST  19,  1824. 

\ 


Nathaniel  &.  ttarttr. 


V 

PUBLISHED  BY  REQUEST. 


BOSTON: 

FROM  THE  COMMERCIAL  GAZETTE  PRESS. 

A.  Sampson Printer. 

1824- 


Ps 

i  9  4,1 


THE  following  poem  is  of  a  character  so  peculiar,  that  its  author  is  un 
willing  it  should  go  forth  to  the  public,  unaccompanied  by  a  few  remarks 
explanatory  of  its  subject  and  its  principles.  He  is  fully  aware,  that  both 
the  plan  and  execution  are  liable  to  objections  and  criticisms,  of  which  he 
would  not  himself  be  thought  insensible. 

The  poem  was  intended  as  a  counterpart  of  THE  PLEASURES  OF  IMAGI- 
. NATION,  by  Dr.  Akenside,  although  it  was  written  without  a  single  recur 
rence  to  the  pages  of  that  work,  or  indeed  to  any  other,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  a  passage  in  Virgil,  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  the  correctness 
of  a  classical  allusion.  This  circumstance  is  not  set  down  to  the  score  of 
merit,  but  may  plead  in  extenuation  of  the  faults  of  the  performance, 
some  of  which  might  perhaps  have  been  avoided  by  a  fuller  analysis  of 
the  subject,  and  an  examination  of  analogous  productions.  It  is  proper 
to  remark,  that  the  word  imagination  is  used  in  the  vague  and  popular 
sense,  sanctioned  by  the  authority  of  standard  writers,  who  employ  the 
term  as  synonymous  with  fancy,  comprehending  under  it  nearly  the  whole 
mind,  instead  of  restricting  it  with  metaphysical  precision  to  that  faculty, 
which  compounds  or  combines  ideas  already  received  through  the  senses, 
and  thus  forms  new  creations  and  images  of  its  own. 

In  the  admirable  papers  of  the  Spectator,  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Ima 
gination,  of  which  Dr.  Akenside's  poem  is  little  more  than  a  fanciful  and 
splendid  paraphrase,  Mr.  Addison  speaks  of  what  he  terms  "the  imperfec 
tions  of  nature,"  and  in  his  concluding  number  remarks : — "  We  have 
now  discovered  the  several  originals  of  those  pleasures  that  gratify  the 
fancy  ;  and  here,  perhaps,  it  would  not  be  very  difficult  to  cast  under  their 
proper  heads  those  contrary  objects,  which  are  apt  to  Jill  it  with  distaste 
and  terror  ;  for  the  imagination  is  as  liable  to  pain  as  pleasure."  This  pas 
sage  fully  explains  the  ground-work  of  the  following  poem,  although  it  did 
not  suggest  the  subject,  the  author  having  finished  and  delivered  his  exer 
cise,  before  the  papers  in  the  Spectator  were  consulted. 


862025 


PAINS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


To  other  bards  I  leave  the  gayer  themes, 
Which  fancy  prompts,  amidst  elysian  dreams; 
Hope's  smiling'  visions,  Memory's  sober  hues, 
And  PLEASURES  hallowed  by  the  cheerful  muse: 
Mine  be  the  task,  to  sing  in  plaintive  strains, 
The  dark  reverse — IMAGINATION'S  PAINS. 

Genius  of  Melancholy,  sad  and  pale, 
Attendant  spirit  of  my  being,  hail! 
Thee  only  I  invoke,  dread  power,  whose  wrath 
Hath  oft  with  clouds  o'erspread  life's  dreary  path : 
Thou  that  hast  ruin'd  many  an  hour  of  bliss, 
Be  present,  and  forsake  me  not  in  this. 
With  all  thy  blackening  train  of  horrors,  come, 
And  shroud  my  lyre  in  congregated  gloom, 
While  o'er  its  chords  a  languid  hand  I  fling, 
And  wake  to  woe  the  heart-responsive  string. 

Oh !  guide  my  footsteps  to  the  rugged  glen, 
Far  from  the  world,  the  busy  haunts  of  men. 
To  the  deep  recess  of  some  frowning  wood, 
Where  solitude  and  silence  ever  brood, 
And  Superstition,  in  Cimmerian  cells, 
Recounts  her  tales,  and  weaves  her  mystic  spells. 
2 


2 

There  as  I  sit  the  live-long  day  alone, 
Mute  as  a  fragment  of  the  mountain  stone. 
While  fancy,  roving  on  excursive  wings, 
Gleans  for  her  song  the  shadowy  hues  of  things, 
Prompt  thou  her  musings,  and  attend  her  flight, 
Through  regions  mantled  in  eternal  night, 
O'er  barren  rocks,  waste  waters,  desert  isles, 
And  Lybian  sands,  where  nature  never  smiles: 
Aid  her  to  mount  to  heaven's  remotest  star, 
Trace,  as  it  wheels,  the  comet's  fiery  car, 
Or  point  her  view  to  lurid  realms  below, 
Where  Plegethon  and  black  Cocytus  flow. 

'Tis  done :  I  hear  thy  soul-depressing  wail, 
Moan  in  the  murmurs  of  the  eastern  gale; 
Thy  gathering  spectres  throng  before  my  eyes, 
And  fiend-like  forms  on  every  side  arise; 
Thy  dark  divinity  my  prayer  hath  blest, 
And  all  thy  spirit  labors  in  my  breast. 

To  me  hadst  thou,  sweet  bard  of  Tyne,*  bequeath'd 
Thy  heaven-born  gifts,  in  lofty  numbers  breath'd; 
Oh !  could  some  favoring  muse,  like  thine,  inspire 
Such  high  imaginings,  as  woke  thy  lyre; 
Then  should  this  verse  descend  to  future  age, 

O      7 

Companion  of  thine  own  immortal  page ! 

Look  through  this  boundless,  universal  frame, 
In  matter,  mind ;  in  nature,  art,  the  same, 

*Dr.  Akenside. 


The  philosophic  eye,  turn  where  it  will, 

Surveys  a  checquered  scene  of  good  and  ill, 

The  world's  great  panoramic  scene  array'd 

In  varying  tints  of  sunshine  and  of  shade. 

What  contradictions  in  our  beings  jar, 

Mysterious  contrasts,  elemental  war ! 

The  soul  etherial,  image  of  its  God, 

Chained  to  the  grossness  of  an  earthly  clod; 

Powers  that  to  glory's  heights  aerial  climb, 

Spurn  at  control,  and  conquer  space  and  time, 

Blended  with  weakness,  which  degrades  the  man 

To  childhood's  wants,  and  mocks  each  generous  plan; 

Frailties  that  cloud  the  bright  celestial  spark, 

And  leave  its  prison  cheerless,  bleak,  and  dark ; 

Passions  for  high  and  god-like  objects  born, 

Or  prone  to  baseness,  infamy,  and  scorn; 

Affections  pure  as  seraph  bosoms  swell, 

Or  fierce  as  rend  the  raging  fiends  of  hell. 

Grant  that  God's  works,  when  fully  understood, 
Are  all  harmonious,  perfect,  fair,  and  good; 
That  nought  was  left  unfinished  by  his  hand, 
When  rose  the  universe  at  his  command; 
That  jarring  principles  our  optics  see, 
Survey'd  aright,  in  symmetry  agree, 
And  parts  discordant  finite  views  descry, 
Are  beauteous  all  in  his  omniscient  eye. 
So  when  from  earth,  at  heaven's  bright  train  we  gaze, 
And  trace  our  system's  planetary  maze, 
Orbit  by  orbit  to  the  view  seems  cross'd, 
And  wandering  worlds  in  gay  confusion  lost : 


Not  thus  the  tenant  of  the  central  sun 

Beholds  the  orbs  in  splendid  circles  run ; 

Thence  mark'd,  the  whole  in  paths  concentric  dance, 

And  wheel  harmonious  through  the  blue  expanse; 

World  after  world,  to  Herschel's  farthest  bound, 

Rolls  on  resplendent  in  eternal  round. 

Grant  that  all  moral  evil  may  arise, 
Alike  for  purposes  both  good  and  wise ; 
That  pain  and  sickness,  penury  and  distress, 
Are  mercies  in  disguise,  designed  to  bless; 
To  blinded  man  unreal  wrong  appears, 
When  vice  exults,  and  virtue  pines  in  tears; 
That  all  the  scourges  earth  is  doom'd  to  feel, 
The  conqueror's  sword,  th'  assassin's  gory  steel, 
War,  pestilence,  and  famine's  shrivelled  band, 
Fell  Discord's  torch,  the  incendiary's  brand, 
Power's  blood-stain'd  robe,  the  proud  oppressor's  rod, 
May  turn  to  blessings  in  the  hand  of  God. 
E'en  death  itself,  the  last  of  human  woes, 
May  kindly  come,  life's  weary  way  to  close, 
And  ope  the  portals  to  eternal  joys, 
While  earth's  frail  hopes  his  withering  hand  destroys. 

So  holy  Faith,  bright  spirit  of  the  sky, 
Fixes  on  heaven,  her  meek  uplifted  eye, 
Her  own  blind  will  to  chasten,  humbly  learns, 
Some  just  design  in  weal  or  woe  discerns, 
Subjects  to  Providence  rebellious  pride, 
And  bids  vain  man  in  God  alone  confide. 


Clear  is  the  light  her  vision  sheds  around, 
No  schemes  perplex,  no  mysteries  confound, 
In  all  she  sees,  celestial  wisdom  blends, 
And  present  ill  in  future  blessing  ends, 
Judgment  and  mercy  in  her  trials  meet, 
And  every  wish  lies  prostrate  at  her  feet. 

But  to  the  happy  few  alone  is  given, 
This  bright  perspective  of  the  ways  of  heaven ; 
And  man  too  oft,  with  sordid  passions  blind, 
Creates  those  evils,  which  he  does  not  find  : 
Thus  life,  how  bright  so'er  its  current  flows, 
Teems  with  its  thousand  visionary  woes. 
Imagination,  like  the  wizard's  glass, 
Imparts  its  hues  to  objects  as  they  pass, 
And  grave  or  gay,  the  changing  scene  depends, 
Most  on  the  colors,  which  the  medium  lends. 

Oft  pallid  fear  the  craven  mind  o'erspreads, 
Her  sickly  influence  on  the  vision  sheds, 
Discolors,  mars,  distorts,  and  magnifies, 
The  goodliest  forms  and  images  that  rise. 
Suspicion's  credulous,  distrustful  eye, 
Self-torturing  envy,  base-born  jealousy, 
Each  to  imagination  lends  a  shade, 
And  shifts  the  prospect,  through  her  lens  survey'd. 
Still  deeper  tints  black  melancholy  throws 
O'er  human  life,  and  doubles  all  its  woes  ; 
And  thus  the  meaner  passions,  feelings  tend, 
To  swell  the  ills,  that  with  our  being  blend. 


6 

Nor  these  alone  ;  but  circumstance  oft  flings 
A  varying  shadow  o'er  our  views  of  things  : 
Disease's  pale  and  ghastly  group  may  come, 
Unnerve  the  soul,  and  shed  a  cheerless  gloom  ; 
Misfortune,  want,  and  hopeless  penury  scan, 
With  clouded  ken,  the  checquered  lot  of  man  ; 
Dark  Superstition's  myriad  phantoms  dance, 
In  fearful  shapes,  before  her  votary's  glance, 
And  teach  his  heart,  that  penance,  pain,  and  ill 
Were  meant  his  earthly  pilgrimage  to  fill. 
Vice  too,  the  monster  arm'd  with  scorpion  stings, 
Mantles  with  shade  Imagination's  wings, 
Amidst  life's  joys,  his  Gorgon  front  uprears, 
The  guilty  breast  o'erwhelms  with  conscious  fears, 
To  heaven,  to  earth  imparts  a  sombre  cast, 
And  shrouds  in  night  the  future  and  the  past. 

On  themes  like  these,  'twere  tedious  to  prolong 
The  philosophic,  dry,  didactic  song, 
Explore  each  hidden  source,  each  secret  cause, 
The  mind's  immutable,  eternal  laws, 
Those  changeless  principles,  whence  heaven  ordains, 
Shall  spring  our  joys,  our  pleasures,  and  our  pains, 
Dull  metaphysics  hence  !  and  let  me  choose 
Topics  more  grateful  to  the  devious  muse, 
Who  heavenward  first  directs  her  daring  view, 
To  boundless  voids  and  liquid  fields  of  blue. 
What  though  unnumber'd  images  may  throng 
Around  her  lyre,  and  court  a  nobler  song — 
The  sun,  great  source  of  light  and  life  below, 
Whose  golden  streams  from  founts  perennial  flow, 


The  moon's  cold  orb,  with  silver  phazes  bright, 
And  stars  that  gem  the  canopy  of  night — 
What  though  delighted  fancy  here  might  rove, 
And  tune  the  string  to  pleasure,  joy,  and  love  ; 
Yet  e'en  amidst  resplendent  worlds  on  high, 
Do  not  her  wayward  musings  oft  descry 
Shadows,  that  veil  the  bright  etherial  plains, 
And  themes  to  swell  imagination's  pains  ? 

Monarchs  have  mark'd,  with  dire  forebodings  sad, 
Yon  solar  orb,  at  noon,  in  sack-cloth  clad, 
While  o'er  their  thrones  portentous  twilight  spread, 
And  smote  the  hosts  of  guilty  power  with  dread. 
Oft  too  the  moon,  as  up  the  eastern  skies, 
Her  ruddy  disk,  full-orbed,  is  seen  to  rise, 
Or  when  mid  heaven,  she  peerless  rides  alone, 
And  looks  in  splendor  from  her  cloudless  throne, 
While  through  the  shoreless,  blue  expanse  she  sails, 
Plunges  in  shade,  and  all  her  beauty  veils. 
Mortals  no  more  survey  her  silver  horn, 
Now  a  dull  globe,  of  light  and  glory  shorn  ; 
No  more  the  mountains,  valleys,  woods,  and  streams, 
Bask  in  the  lustre  of  her  tranquil  beams, 
But  o'er  the  earth  a  dusky  gloom  she  throws. 
To  Fancy's  dream  presaging  future  woes. 

Far  in  the  west,  behold  yon  baleful  star, 
Herald  of  famine,  pestilence,  and  war ! 
Who  marks  but  thinks,  as  onward  in  his  course 
He  drives  his  car,  with  blind,  resistless  force, 


8 

Perchance  to  earth  his  burning  wheels  may  rush, 
And  this  fair  globe  to  mighty  ruins  crush  ! 
E'en  astronomic  science  may  not  deem, 
Such  fears  as  these  a  visionary  dream, 
Since  countless  orbs,  in  lawless  mazes  run, 
Rush  round  the  earth,  and  hail  the  parent  sun. 

Oh  !  who  hath  not,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Musing  at  eve,  in  some  sequestered  wood, 
Or  where  the  torrent's  foaming  waters  pour, 
Or  ocean's  billows  murmur  on  the  shore  ; — 
Oh !  who  hath  not  in  such  a  moment  gaz'd, 
As  heaven's  bright  hosts  in  cloudless  glory  blaz'd, 
And  felt  a  sadness  steal  upon  his  heart, 
To  think  that  he  with  this  fair  scene  must  part  ! 
That  while  those  billows  heave,  those  waters  flow, 
Those  garnish'd  skies  refulgent  still  shall  glow, 
He  that  once  watch'd  them  shall  have  pass'd  away, 
His  name  forgot,  his  ashes  blent  with  clay, 
Unlike  those  glittering  orbs,  those  quenchless  fires, 
Ordain'd  to  roll,  till  time  itself  expires ! 

But  see  afar,  through  sultry  tracts  of  air, 
Streaming  in  angry  forms,  red  meteors  glare  ; 
Athwart  the  sky,  their  hissing  tresses  flash, 
Then  down  to  earth,  the  molten  masses  dash  ; 
The  burning  ruin  sweeps  along  the  ground, 
And  loud  the  welkin  echoes  with  the  sound. 

Lo !  where  the  horizon  mingles  with  the  deep, 
Pillowed  in  clouds,  the  infant  thunders  sleep  ; 


9 

Silence  and  night  precede  the  coming  storm, 
And  mid  the  gloom  pale  terror  lifts  his  form  : 
Now  bursts  the  gathered  tempest :  torrents  pour, 
And  hollow  winds  through  shatter'd  forests  roar  ; 
Far  through  the  storm  the  vivid  flashes  gleam, 
From  cloud  to  cloud  careering  volleys  stream, 
And  thick  and  fast  upon  the  prostrate  world, 
With  vengeance  wing'd,  the  angry  bolts  are  hurl'd. 

On  ocean's  cliff,  see  beauty  wild  and  pale, 
Watching  alone  the  fury  of  the  gale  : 
Amid  the  dangers  of  the  rugged  coast, 
She  marks  her  sailor's  gallant  vessel  tost ; 
Frantic  with  grief,  her  sunny  locks  she  tears, 
As  the  red  lightning  on  the  breakers  glares, 
And  o'er  the  tumult  of  the  boiling  deep, 
Mad  whirlwinds  howl,  and  dark  tornadoes  sweep. 
Shall  she,  delighted,  hear  the  tempest  rave, 
And  list  the  murmurs  of  the  dashing  wave  ! 
Think  ye  the  grandeur  of  the  scene  can  charm 
Her  heart,  that  throbs  at  every  gust  alarm  ! 

Behold  yon  volumes  of  sulphurous  smoke, 
Roll  in  black  wreaths,  and  heaven  with  vapour  choke  ! 
The  mountain  trembles,  and  the  earth  afar 
Feels  the  dread  shock  of  elemental  war  ; 
Loud  roars  the  ocean,  and  the  mingled  din 
Breaks  on  the  ear  from  rumbling  caves  within  : 
Then  flames  the  crater  :  to  the  skies  aspire 
The  liquid  gushes  of  volcanic  fire. 
3 


10 

Aghast  the  peasant  of  Campania  stands, 
And  mourns  his  ruin'd  cot,  his  deluged  lands, 
Perchance  his  wife,  his  children's  hapless  doom, 
Buried  in  flame,  and  hurried  to  the  tomb. 
While  his  lorn  bosom  is  with  anguish  wrung, 
Cares  he  what  bards  the  scene  sublime  have  sung  ? 
How  many  Plinies  once  admired  the  sight, 
Its  grandeur  trac'd,  then  perish'd  in  delight  ? 

But  hark  ! — in  southern  climes  along  the  ground, 
Like  distant  thunders,  runs  a  hollow  sound  : 
Wide  and  more  wide  extends  the  sullen  jar, 
As  when  conflicting  chariots  rush  to  war  ; 
Rocks,  woods,  and  plains  the  wild  commotion  feel, 
And  the  tall  Andes  to  their  bases  reel ; 
In  mountain  waves,  the  undulating  lea 
Heaves,  like  the  tossings  of  a  troubled  sea  : 
Impending  ruin  mocks  the  force  of  art, 
And  ghastly  terror  seizes  every  heart. 
Then  yawns  the  fathomless  abyss,  and  down 
At  once  are  hurled  the  works  of  old  renown, 
The  monuments  of  ages  ;  all  that  man, 
His  genius,  taste,  and  luxury  could  plan  : 
All,  all  in  one  promiscuous  grave  repose, 
O'er  which  the  earth,  and  gushing  waters  close, 
And  hence  along  the  stagnant  lake  and  plain, 
Shall  solitude  and  desolation  reign. 

Oh  !  who  hath  not  in  fancy  trod  alone, 
The  trackless  deserts  of  the  burning  zone. 


11 

Nor  felt  a  dreariness  oppress  his  soul, 
To  mark  the  sands  in  eddies  round  him  roll, 
Like  ocean's  billows,  threatening  to  o'erwhelm, 
His  wilder'd  march,  through  many  a  weary  realm  ? 
No  verdure  smiles,  no  crystal  fountains  play, 
To  quench  the  arrows  of  the  god  of  day, 
No  breezy  lawns,  no  cool,  meandering  streams, 
Allay  the  fervor  of  his  torrid  beams  ; 
No  whispering  zephyrs  fan  the  glowing  skies ; 
But  o'er  long  tracts  the  mournful  siroc  sighs, 
Whose  desolating  march,  whose  withering  breath 
Sweeps  through  the  caravan  with  instant  death  : 
The  wandering  Arab,  startled  at  the  sound, 
Mantles  his  face,  and  presses  close  the  ground^ 
Till  o'er  his  prostrate,  weary  limbs  hath  pass'd, 
In  sullen  gusts,  the  poison-wafting  blast. 

'Tis  night :  but  there  the  sparkling  heavens  diffuse 
No  genial  showers,  no  soft-distilling  dews  ; 
In  the  hot  sky,  the  stars,  of  lustre  shorn, 
Burn  o'er  the  pathway  of  the  wanderer  lorn^ 
And  the  red  moon,  from  Babelmandel's  strand, 
Looks,  as  she  climbs,  through  pyramids  of  sand, 
That  whirl'd  aloft,  and  gilded  by  her  light, 
Blaze  the  lone  beacons  of  the  desert  night. 
From  distant  wilds  is  heard  the  dismal  howl 
Of  hideous  monsters,  that  in  darkness  prowl : 
Urg'd  by  gaunt  famine  from  his  lair  and  home, 
Along  the  waste,  the  tiger's  footsteps  roam, 


12 

And  from  afar,  the  fierce  hyena's  scream 

At  midnight  breaks  the  traveller's  fitful  dream. 

Hence  let  us  haste — from  torrid  climes  like  these, 
To  frozen  regions  and  to  arctic  seas, 
Where  the  pale  sun  emits  his  feeble  light, 
Or  hides  his  orb,  and  leaves  the  world  in  night : 
Realms  where  the  glittering  ice-berg,  tempest-tost, 
Tumbles  and  thunders  round  the  polar  coast, 
And  bound  by  frost,  the  adventurous  bark  in  vain, 
Steers  for  her  home,  across  the  wintry  main. 
Athwart  her  way,  tremendous  mountains  roll, 
And  storms  of  sleet  come  driving  from  the  pole  : 
Pierc'd  by  the  keenness  of  the  biting  air, 
To  heaven  the  sea-boy  lifts  his  suppliant  prayer, 
Then  sinks  forever  in  the  angry  surge, 
The  deep  his  grave,  the  sigh  of  winds  his  dirge. 

In  climes  more  blest,  may  not  the  wayward  mind 
Themes  for  imagination's  tortures  find  ? 
Come,  thrid  with  me  the  Oronoco's  swamps, 
And  breathe  its  noisome,  pestilential  damps — 
Fens,  where  the  basking  alligator  sleeps, 
The  serpent  hisses,  and  the  lizard  creeps — 
Pools  mantling  thick,  with  loathsome  reptiles  rife, 
Whose  stagnant  waters  teem  with  nascent  life, 
Whence  countless  swamps  of  animalcules  spring, 
Warm  into  day,  and  warp  upon  the  wing. 

Hence,  at  what  time  the  sultry  Sirian  star 
Wheels  o'er  the  world  his  pestilential  car, 


13 

Or  when  in  torrents  pour  autumnal  rains, 
Deluge  the  earth,  and  steam  from  stagnant  plains, 
Hence  pale  disease,  and  death  terrific  come, 
Their  victims  hurrying  to  a  timeless  tomb  ; 
And  chief,  the  throng  offerers,  hideous  band  I 
Scourge  of  the  south,  that  desolate  the  land : 
Hence  have  I  seen,  the  foremost  of  the  train, 
The  furious  conqueror*  hold  his  dismal  reign, 
Along  those  waste,  depopulated  shores, 
Where  to  the  sea,  the  silver  Hudson  pours, 
And  the  proud  city  lifts  its  gorgeous  pile 
Of  domes  and  spires,  to  crown  the  wave-girt  isle. 
Humbled  to  dust,  in  that  disastrous  hour, 
Sunk  all  her  pride,  her  glory,  pomp,  and  power  : 
No  more  the  joyous  crew  their  canvas  furl'd, 
Rich  with  the  gathered  commerce  of  the  world, 
Nor  leap'd  the  sailor,  eager  of  the  land, 
To  greet  his  kindred,  on  his  native  strand ; 
But  every  gale,  and  every  tainted  breeze, 
Breath'd  pestilence,  and  wafted  fell  disease. 
From  street  to  street,  the  dire  contagion  sped, 
Before  its  march,  the  crowd  afrighted  fled, 
Nor  lingering  paused  to  take  a  last  farewell 
Of  friends  and  kindred,  who  around  them  fell. 
Sad  scene  ! — the  cheerful,  busy  din  no  more 
Was  heard  beside  the  solitary  shore  ; 
No  bustling  throng,  intent  on  pleasure,  rush'd  ; 
But  thoughtless  gaiety  and  mirth  were  hush'd, 

*  Yellow  Fever. 


14 

And  through  deserted  dwellings,  drear  and  lone, 
Dull  silence  reign'd,  or  rung  the  hollow  groan. 
Frequent  by  night  was  heard  the  rumbling  jar 
Of  the  black  hearse,  or  mercenary  car, 
That  weary  of  its  loathsome  burden,  sped, 
And  hurried  to  the  grave  th'  unhonored  dead. 

Behold  yon  ruin  ! — once  'twas  beauty's  form, 
With  life,  with  hope,  with  animation  warm, 
A  father's  joy,  a  mother's  darling  pride, 
Dearer  to  one,  than  all  the  world  beside  ! 
The  rose  has  wither'd  :  sallow  paleness  now 
Sits  on  that  faded  cheek,  that  polish' d  brow ; 
No  more  those  eyes  shall  sparkle  with  a  tear, 
No  more  the  accents  of  those  lips  endear  ; 
Nor  that  pure  bosom,  spotless  as  its  snow, 
Heave  with  the  sigh  of  sympathetic  woe  ! 
From  raging  pestilence,  while  others  fled, 
Her  angel  form  still  hover'd  round  the  bed, 
To  soothe  the  couch  of  anguish  and  despair, 
And  cheer  the  parting  spirit  with  her  prayer  ! 

But  much  too  long  in  NATURE'S  field,  the  muse 
From  scene  to  scene,  her  devious  path  pursues  : 
Hence  let  her  turn,  and  briefly  in  her  strain, 
Rehearse  the  MORAL  SOURCES  of  our  pain. 

O  !  thou  eternal  Being,  pure  and  bright ! 
Who  dwell'st  on  high,  in  uncreated  light, 
Around  whose  throne  the  hymning  seraphs  sing. 
And  choirs  of  angels  sweep  the  golden  string ; 


15 

Who,  crown'd  with  glory,  sitt'st  above  the  spheres, 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  by  rolling  years, 
And  from  the  fountain  of  exhaustless  love, 
Pour'st  down  thy  streams  of  mercy  from  above  ! 
Sole  refuge  of  the  mind,  when  cares  distress, 
And  on  the  heart  life's  thickening  sorrows  press, 
How  hast  thyself,  obscurely  seen  below, 
Been  made  by  man  the  bitter  source  of  woe  ! 
Through  reason's  glass,  perfections  half  disceru'd, 
Are  lost  in  shade,  or  into  dimness  turn'd, 
And  what  the  image  wants,  when  thus  descry'd, 
Is  promptly  sketch'd  in  tints  of  human  pride. 

Hence  Superstition  has  in  every  clime, 
Those  structures  rear'd,  which  triumph  over  time, 
And  stand  as  beacons  age  has  left  behind, 
To  mark  the  blindness,  folly,  of  mankind, 
Who,  lost  in  darkness,  hew'd  their  gods  of  stone, 
And  rais'd  their  tyrant  idols  to  a  throne, 
Or  form'd  them  deities,  whom  fear  had  made, 
In  lawless  kings  and  despots  they  obey'd. 
Hence  rose  that  mighty  fabric  of  the  mind, 
By  Egypt's  priests,  and  Grecian  bards  design'd, 
Which,  like  the  frowning  pyramids  of  Nile, 
Survives  a  rude  and  antiquated  pile. 
Luxuriant  Fancy,  favor'd  by  a  clime, 
Where  all  she  saw  was  beauteous  or  sublime, 
Half  grave,  half  sportive,  wantoning  in  thought, 
Those  mythologic  dreams  and  fictions  wrought ; 
Or  in  a  barbarous  age,  perchance  reviv'd 
Glimmerings  of  truth,  from  other  lands  deriv'd. 


16 

'Twas  she  that  fill'd  the  skies,  the  earth,  and  seas 

With  mystic  powers,  her  own  divinities, 

Till  every  mountain,  every  grove  she  trod, 

And  every  stream  was  haunted  by  a  god  : 

Folly  ador'd,  and  Superstition  knelt 

To  imag'd  passions  bards  had  only  felt. 

Imagination's  gay  or  gloomy  spell, 

Now  made  a  paradise,  and  now  a  hell, 

Elysian  isles,  where  joy  forever  reigns, 

Or  realms  resounding  with  eternal  pains. 

Hence  Pluto's  shadowy  throne  and  empire  sprung, 

And  fabled  woes,  by  ancient  poets  sung, 

Orcus,  and  Styx,  and  lakes  with  burning  shores, 

And  walls  of  adamant,  and  brazen  doors, 

The  cup  of  Tantalus,  with  toils  that  mock 

His  burning  lip  ;  the  vulture  and  the  rock, 

The  stone  of  Sisyphus,  Ixion's  wheel, 

And  all  the  tortures  damned  spirits  feel : 

These,  and  the  thousand  woes,  by  heathen  creeds 

Ordained  in  punishment  of  guilty  deeds, 

Are  but  the  shadows  genius  has  design'd, 

To  paint  that  hell,  which  lives  within  the  mind. 

Thrice  happy  age,  when  truth's  resistless  sway- 
Hath  swept  these  wild,  fantastic  dreams  away, 
And  light  unclouded,  beaming  from  above, 
Reveals  a  faith  of  purity  and  love. 
Oh  !  speed  that  epoch,  that  millennial  time, 
When  God's  own  word  shall  spread  from  clime  to  clime 
When  the  bright  star  of  Bethlehem  shall  illume 
The  earth,  scattering  the  darkness  of  the  tomb, 


ir 

The  bloodless  banner  of  the  cross  unfurl'd, 
Shall  wave  in  triumph  o'er  the  peaceful  world, 
And  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun, 
All  realms,  uniting,  mingle  into  one  ! 

Then  Superstition  shall  erect  no  more 
Her  pagan  altars,  stain'd  with  human  gore; 
No  hecatombs  shall  burn,  no  victims  bleed, 
No  bloody  rites  fulfil  a  barbarous  creed, 
But  the  pure  incense  of  the  heart  shall  rise, 
And  breathe  to  heaven  a  grateful  sacrifice. 
Then  jarring  sects  from  bitter  strife  shall  cease, 
Forget  their  feuds,  and  harmonize  in  peace  ; 
Nor  then,  as  now,  with  rage  and  passion  blind, 
A  separate  heaven,  a  variant  godhead  find. 
Man  shall  not  then  his  brother  doom  to  feel 
The  bigots'  scourge,  the  faggot,  and  the  wheel, 
Or  plunge  in  dungeons,  hopeless  and  alone, 
Damn'd  for  a  creed,  not  fashion'd  like  his  own ; 
But  in  that  day,  discordant  hearts  shall  blend, 
And  all  before  one  common  altar  bend, 
Till  Christian  love,  shall  in  her  wide  embrace, 
Hold  as  one  brotherhood  the  human  race. 

Who  without  pain  surveys  the  historic  page, 
Black  with  ambition,  tyranny,  and  rage, 
With  ign'rance,  error,  luxury,  lust,  and  pride, 
Virtue  depress'd,  and  baseness  deified  ! 
Tracts  of  long  centuries,  barren,  waste,  and  drear, 
With  few  memorials  to  direct  or  cheer  ! — 
4 


18 

Empires  and  realms,  o'er  which  the  wing  of  time 
Hath  swept,  and  left  no  trace  save  that  of  crime — 
Cities  in  ruin  sunk,  despoil'd  by  war 
To  swell  the  trophies  of  some  conqueror's  car ; 
Remnants  of  art  and  splendor,  which  the  lust 
Of  wanton  rule  hath  trampled  in  the  dust — 
Regions  of  desolation,  fields  of  fame 
Crimsoned  with  blood,  to  win  a  hero's  name. 
Such  is  the  record  of  past  ages,  fill'd 
With  tales  of  woe,  by  which  the  heart  is  chill'd, 
Deeds  from  whose  dye  recoils  the  sickened  mind, 
And  asks,  are  these  the  annals  of  mankind  ? 

E'en  at  this  liberal  epoch,  when  the  light 
Of  knowledge  beams,  and  freedom  claims  he/  right, 
What  relics  still  of  barbarous  times  remain, 
And  fill  the  philanthropic  breast  with  pain  ! 
What  hordes  of  slaves  some  lawless  despot  own, 
Bow  to  his  rod,  and  crouch  beneath  his  throne  ! 
What  countless  millions  struggling  to  be  free, 
Demand  in  vain  the  boon  of  Liberty  ! 
Such,  hapless  Naples  !  such,  inglorious  Spain, 
Thy  fate  ! — still  doom'd  to  wear  the  oppressor's  chain, 
Which  hearts  ignoble  tamely  sought  to  burst, 
By  cowardice  and  treachery  doubly  curst ! 

E'en  while  I  sing,  war's  hurtling  tempest  raves 
On  Grecian  plains,  and  o'er  the  Egean  waves  ; 
The  flag  of  freedom  from  Olympus  streams, 
Through  Tempe's  vale  the  blaze  of  cannon  gleams, 


19 

Around  Parnassus'  brow  the  battle  rings, 
And  purple  currents  dye  Castalian  springs  ; 
To  new  Plateas  modern  heroes  rush, 
And  new  Thermopylae  with  carnage  gush. 
Oh  !  be  the  conflict  worthy  of  the  sires, 
Whose  altars  blaz'd  with  freedom's  holy  fires  ; 
Who  spurning  luxury's  seductive  charms, 
Flew  to  the  field,  and  died  in  glory's  arms. 
Still  may  their  spirits  urge  the  phalanx  on, 
Till  every  plain  becomes  a  Marathon ; 
Till  sinks  the  crescent,  and  the  cross  shall  wave 
Triumphant  o'er  the  humbled  Moslem's  grave, 
And  freedom,  peace,  and  independence  smile, 
On  every  hill,  through  every  sea-born  isle. 

Shade  of  departed  genius  !  can  I  turn 
From  Greece,  without  a  tribute  to  thine  urn  : 
Byron  !  sad  illustration  of  my  theme  ! 
Haunted  and  curst  by  fancy's  wildering  dream  ; 
With  talents,  learning,  fortune,  honors  blest, 
The  idol  of  the  world,  and  yet  its  jest ; 
A  peer,  a  vagrant  ;  husband  without  wife  ; 
Lord  of  estates,  a  houseless  bard  for  life  ; 
Pride  of  thy  friends,  and  of  thy  native  land, 
A  wandering  exile  on  a  foreign  strand  ; 
For  greatness,  usefulness,  and  glory  born, 
First  winning  wreaths,  then  trampling  them  in  scorn 
The  friend  of  freedom,  generous,  bold,  and  brave, 
To  nothing  save  thy  wayward  will  a  slave. 
Peace  to  thy  shade  ! — thy  troubled  dreams  are  o'er  : 
The  world  shall  praise,  condemn,  admire  no  more. 


20 

But  long  thy  memory  shall  be  ador'd, 
In  that  fair  land,  for  which  thou  drew'st  thy  sword, 
And  Doric  maidens,  round  thy  Parian  shrine, 
Their  pagans  chant,  and  wreaths  of  glory  twine. 

In  our  blest  clime,  in  Freedom's  own  domain, 
Exist  no  wrongs,  to  give  the  bosom  pain  ? — 
Hark  !  in  the  murmurs  of  the  southern  gale, 
Breaks  on  the  ear,  the  negro's  hollow  wail. 
I  hear  the  driver's  lash,  the  dismal  clank 
Of  chains,  resound  along  Missouri's  bank, 
As  on  he  hastens  to  the  sable  fold, 
His  herd  of  victims,  to  be  bought  and  sold  : 
I  see  the  slave,  in  mind,  in  soul  akin — 
In  all,  beside  the  tincture  of  the  skin, 
Doom'd,  like  the  brute,  to  turn  the  arid  soil, 
In  hopeless,  thankless,  unrequited  toil : 
I  see  him  weary,  at  the  beat  of  drum, 
His  only  curfew,  hurried  to  his  home, 
To  find  in  dreams,  upon  his  bed  of  straw, 
A  land  of  right,  of  liberty,  and  law  ! 
Remorseless  servitude,  of  ills  the  worst, 
Of  crimes  the  deepest,  with  which  earth  is  curst ! 
Let  the  kind  master  mingle  as  he  will 
The  bitter  chalice,  it  is  slavery  still ! 
The  hand  of  mercy  cannot  pluck  the  thorn, 
That  arms  the  pillow  of  the  wretch  forlorn, 
Nor  bland  philanthropy  assuage  the  pain, 
Or  dry  the  tear,  of  him  who  wears  a  chain. 
Shame  on  progenitors,  whose  crimes  entail'd 
A  blot,  a  curse  their  children  have  bewail'd  ! 


21 

Shame  that  one  man,  who  breathes  th'  inspiring  air 
Of  freedom,  and  who  tastes  her  boon,  should  dare 
To  lift  his  voice,  the  advocate  of  wrong, 
And  seek,  from  sordid  pretexts,  to  prolong 
This  stain  upon  a  country,  great  and  free, 
Glorious  in  arts  and  arms,  the  home  of  Liberty ! 

No  other  blots  are  there,  to  mar  the  page 
Of  our  bright  annals  ? — none  upon  this  age? 
Who  sees,  without  a  pang,  the  feuds,  the  strife 
Of  party  burst  the  ties  of  social  life — 
Those  mutual,  tender  charities  that  cheer 
The  generous  breast,  and  man  to  man  endear  ? 
Unmoved,  who  sees  these  sever'd,  and  the  crowd 
Of  venal  politicians,  boisterous,  loud, 
In  faction  fierce,  tumultuous,  fired  with  zeal, 
More  from  self-interest,  than  the  public  weal  ? 

Hence  at  some  future  day,  perchance  shall  spring 
Fierce  civil  wars  ;  the  din  of  battle  ring, 
Echoing  from  hill  to  hill,  from  flood  to  flood, 
State  after  state  be  drench'd  in  civic  blood, 
Till  liberty's  proud  fabric,  which  the  world 
Admiring  sees,  to  ruin  shall  be  hurl'd; 
Our  eagle  cower  from  his  aerial  height, 
Fame,  learning,  glory,  gink  in  Gothic  night, 
Freedom  expire,  and  o'er  her  wide  domain, 
Some  Alexander,  or  some  Caesar  reign. 

Behold  the  Patriot ! — he,  whose  liberal  mind 
Plans  to  promote  the  common  weal  design'd, 


22 

Who,  toiling  for  his  country,  distant  seas 
Together  join'd,  and  taught  the  inland  breeze, 
The  freighted  bark,  from  Huron's  farthest  shore, 
To  waft  new  wealth,  and  golden  commerce  pour  ; — 
He  stands  condemn'd,  proscrib'd  ;  his  laurels  torn 
By  envious  hands,  and  by  pretenders  worn, 
While  genius,  virtue,  worth,  disdains  to  rise 
By  little  arts,  which  low  ambition  tries. 

But  not  from  public  wrong  and  outrage  spring 
Life's  deepest  woes,  and  suffering's  keenest  sting  : 
Those,  as  a  common  lot,  we  lightly  share, 
And  from  experience^  habit,  learn  to  bear ; 
While  these,  peculiar,  private,  all  our  own, 
Must  rankling  live,  and  be  endur'd  alone. 
The  bitterest  streams  of  pain  and  anguish  flow 
From  hidden  fountains,  few  or  none  may  know  ; 
Or  if  reveal'd,  can  lenient  friendship  heal, 
Or  sympathy  assuage,  the  pang  we  feel  ? — 
No  :  these  are  sorrows,  rooted  in  the  heart, 
That  waste  its  core,  and  mock  the  power  of  art. 

Such  have  I  seen,  in  yon  sequester'd  dome, 
The  abode  of  misery,  the  maniac's  home. 
Hark !  from  the  dismal,  solitary  cell, 
The  madden'd  laugh,  the  shrieks  of  anguish  swell, 
Low  mutter'd  words,  the  deep  convulsive  scream, 
At  hideous  spectres,  in  life's  waking  dream  ! 

To  yonder  recess,  haggard,  wan,  and  wild, 
Shrinks  the  lorn  shade  of  Nature's  artless  child ! 


23 

Dishevell'd  tresses  veil  her  brow,  her  face, 

Where  once  enthron'd  sat  every  nameless  grace, 

And  still  where  fancy  might  enamoured  find, 

The  lingering  traces  of  a  polished  mind, 

Gilding  at  times  each  feature,  like  the  ray 

Of  sun-set,  fading  from  some  ruin  grey. 

Chains  and  disordered  garments  bind  her  limbs, 

And  her  dark  eye  in  frantic  wildness  swims, 

Her  voice,  whose  silver  tones  erewhile  could  charm, 

Now  fills  the  soul  with  horror  and  alarm  ! 

Such  is  her  guise  :  Oh  !  who  can  paint  the  rest, 

The  scorpion  passions  writhing  in  her  breast, 

Her  brain,  o'er  which  bewilder' d  fancy  flings 

Fantastic  and  disjointed  shapes  of  things, 

Some  cherish'd  look,  some  half-remember' d  thought, 

Mingled  with  images,  by  phrensy  wrought ! 

Ill-fated  maniac  ! — once  perchance  she  lov'd, 

And  he  that  might  have  bless'd  her,  faithless  prov'd  ; 

Or  both  were  lost  by  constancy  too  firm, 

A  canker  planted  in  the  opening  germ, 

By  some  relentless  guardian,  measuring  worth 

By  stocks  and  rents,  by  family  and  birth, 

Whose  sordid  soul  ne'er  rose  above  his  pelf, 

Nor  form'd  a  wish,  which  centred  not  in  self, 

Devoid  alike  of  feeling  and  of  sense, 

Save  just  enough  to  reckon  up  his  pence. 

Lives  such  a  wretch  ? — misfortune's  curses  light 

Upon  his  gold,  his  schemes  of  av'rice  blight, 

Till  want,  his  only  devil,  wring  his  brain, 

With  pangs  as  keen,  as  cross'd  affection's  pain. 


24 

Along  these  haunted  halls,  these  dreary  walks, 
Mark  where  the  living  ghost  of  genius  stalks, 
Muttering  his  wild  vagaries,  as  he  goes, 
Press'd  by  the  load  of  heart-consuming  woes. 
Perhaps  his  hand  the  minstrel  harp  hath  strung, 
Or  on  his  accents  listening  senates  hung  ; 
Perhaps  his  tongue  hath  thunder'd  forth  the  law, 
And  shook  the  forum,  or  the  desk  with  awe  ; 
Or  bade  the  invaders  of  his  country  yield, 
To  deeds  of  daring  on  the  gory  field  : 
But  what  avails  him  now  a  glorious  name, 
The  meed  of  honor,  or  the  wreath  of  fame  ! 
Reft  from  his  brow,  the  wither'd  bay  is  sere, 
And  clustering  laurels  can  no  longer  cheer  : 
Yet  still  in  life  his  mimic  part  he  plays, 
As  o'er  him  flits  the  dream  of  other  days, 
Still  wakes  the  lyre,  harrangues  the  fancied  throng, 
Or  hurls  the  thunder-bolt  of  war  along. 

Brothers  !  unsung,  one  only  task  remains, 
Last  of  Imagination's  feverish  pains — 
The  conscious  thought,  which  weighs  upon  my  heart. 
That,  hence  in  life  to  meet  no  more,  we  part ! 
That  with  the  social,  literary  few, 
Whose  friendly  presence  cheers  to-day  my  view, 
Hence  shall  I  tread  the  academic  scene 
No  more,  nor  we  in  learning's  halls  convene  ; 
But  lingering,  bid  to  Dartmouth's  spires  adieu  ; 
And  life's  diverging,  checquer'd  paths  pursue  ! 


25 

Ye  rural  walks,  ye  hills,  sequester'd  glades, 
Ye  haunted  streams,  and  consecrated  shades, 
Groves  hallowed  by  the  muse,  and  classic  bowers, 
Scenes  of  my  early,  and  my  happiest  hours, 
Farewell ! — to  me  your  unalloy'd  delights, 
Those  days  of  study,  and  those  attic  nights, 
Philosophy  and  science,  ancient  lore, 
And  wisdom's  lessons — shall  return  no  more  ! 
One  bright  reflection  yields  the  parting  tear, 
That  still  the  chosen  few  shall  linger  here, 
Still  o'er  the  Muses'  vestal  rites  preside, 
In  generous  friendship,  high  pursuits,  allied, 
Maintain  our  brotherhood,  with  generous  aim, 
And  guard  our  ALPHA'S,  and  our  ALMA'S  fame. 


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Carter  - 
1261       Pains  of  the 
C2k*D     imagination. 


PS 

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UCSOUTWBN  *aON«L  UBVWVMOUTY 

III 

"A ~00i  374633    4 


